


Not Spoken

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Depression, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Each of his friends have a different way of dealing with Noctis' depression.





	Not Spoken

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something that I needed to write. Because offers to talk or vent don't always help during a depressive episode.

There had always been a lot left unsaid between them. Moments when the words simply died and it was easier not to acknowledge the loss. 

“Hey, buddy,” Prompto’s greeting never wavered, even if his smile did. Even if he was concerned about the quiet and floundering for some semblance of their usual smiles and jokes and laughter. “How’re you doing?”

There was never any offers to sit down and talk it through. Not even after Noct had spent days hiding from his friend, unwilling to face the world as it threatened to crush him with its weight. 

He knew that Prompto worried. That the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes was plastered on out of habit. That he had spent those quiet days texting Ignis or Gladio for news, until Noct pulled himself together to reply to whatever had been ignored on his phone. 

“Feeling any better?”

It was always the same; asked as they fell into step on the sidewalk, the draw of a lunch out— safe and quick if need be— enough to pull Noctis out into the daylight again. 

“No.”

The curt answer never made Prompto hesitate. 

If anything, it just made him take out his camera again. It made him sit a little bit too close at they shared a booth at the little restaurant down the street, thigh-to-thigh so he could scroll through his latest album while Noct stole fries from his plate. The curt response- the short, subdued tone— never held Prompto back for long. 

Noctis knew that Prompto would always wait for him. Usually with a pile of pictures to show him what he had missed. 

———

Ignis had learnt not to worry too much. Not during these lack days, when Noctis barely functioned enough to greet him. He learnt not to miss the bright-eyed boy he once knew for too long, or his friend’s smile and quick wit. He learnt not to push. 

He would let himself into the apartment, and tidy what Noctis could not. What he didn’t have the energy to manage yet. He would leave the reports and notes on the table, neatly marked and edited to keep the worst of the news for later, when it was easier to manage. He made meals, and filled the apartment with his own voice, and the sounds of water and pots and pan and cutlery clattering together more than necessary to break through the silence with the clarity of bells. He filled the apartment with the sounds of productive life. 

When he was younger, and more easily startled by the rapid shifts in mood, he once suggested that Noctis talk to someone. Talk to him. He once tried to force the conversations that his prince, his friend, didn’t want to have. 

Now, he smiled as Noctis emerged from his room, dishevelled and bleary eyed; “Would you care to read that page of ingredients for me, Noct?”

If he let himself muse, he thought of Noctis as a cat— needing calm and patience to come forward at times when affection came slow. He preferred not to think about it. He no longer searched out the triggers or attempted to time the moods and spirals.

He waited, and watched, calm and patient. And he filled the apartment with the noise and smells of a life still lived. 

And smiled as Noct sat at the table with the notebook, and went through the recipe with him. Pleased by the shy smile Noct returned when the task was done and the food was fresh and steaming before them like a feast. Always too much, with leftovers for a week to pick at. 

———

He had never had the patience for the worst of it. Not when it got bad. When Noctis withdrew and seemed to disappear into his own head for days and weeks at a time. Gladiolus had never understood what the struggle must have been like, until he realised that it couldn’t be channelled into something productive or forceful. Until he realised that Noct wasn’t willingly disappearing before their eyes. 

“Up.”

He used to bark orders and manhandle Noct through it. Sometimes it still worked. It got him moving, active. Sometimes the runs in the morning, the sparring in the back garden, the sweat and dust of the training yards, worked. Sometimes, they talked. Sometimes they smacked at each other with training swords until they were both a mess, and exhausted. But they were more honest with each other. 

“Not today, Gladio.”

He had seen Noct struggle like this before. 

“Yes, today. Come on.”

Some days, when it was bad, all they could do was walk. Noct never cared where they went. Gladio just wanted him to get dressed and moving. It would help. The air would help. 

And they would walk, hands stuffed into their pockets as they trudged through the streets, neither speaking until they started to get hungry or thirsty. Or tired again. Sometimes Gladio would talk— a stream of accomplishments and stories from home; how Iris was doing in her training, and her determination to be the real Shield was the usual topic. Stories picked up from trivial news, idle plans to drag Prompto and his camera out to the stables of Chocobos where the chicks had just hatched. Stories from the rivalries between the Guard and the Glaives, with whatever heroics were being challenged and whatever sparring matches were being bet on. 

And Gladio would nudge Noct as they walked past something interesting. Bookstores and cafes, game shops and sporting stores. He would muscle Noct along streets until Noct started leading them instead.


End file.
